


There is no coffee

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>stores are curious and fickle things, and the varieties of not-quite-coffee even more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is no coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, it is Horatio Hornblower's birthday today. This, of course, means birthday!fic.

There is no coffee. This, in and of itself, would not be a fact worth noting. Neither would it be noteworthy that instead, Hornblower finds his breakfast served with a cup of blackened, sweetened water. It is warm, after all, and free of weevils and algae.

And yet, as always, the first few days without coffee find him tired and irritable, his head aching and stars dancing in the corners of his vision when he stands too quickly. And while most of the symptoms disappear as his body adjusts to the lack of stimulant, the dizziness and tendency to pass out does not. And Hornblower has grown used to it over the years, knows his weaknesses as well as his strengths, and by now, he is practiced enough that the men under his command don't notice how much he relies on coffee to replace whatever bodily function would keep a healthy man standing upright.

Intent on keeping this secret, at least, he carefully absents himself as much as possible from the crew, spending as much time as he possibly can beneath deck, carefully plotting their course and updating the logs, and finally realising that even the most careful book-keeping could not possibly keep him occupied for longer than half an hour.

So he sets aside his maps and papers, and calls for the steward and the quartermaster, calculating rapidly. According to his estimates, they should not have been out of coffee for another week or two, not before they had finished crossing the Atlantic, and here they are, not even halfway across, and already out of coffee.

He looks up when the two men he sent for enter and greet him, and then realises that he doesn't know how to phrase his request without giving the impression that he might be human enough to need or desire a luxury like coffee.

"There seems to be a problem with the stores," is what he finally settles for, looking at the papers on his desk, trying to seem in control rather than confused.

"Sir?", his steward finally asks, confusion as much as worry in his voice.

"We seem to have run out of coffee far earlier than one should expect from our calculations."

He is answered by silence.

When he looks up, the quartermaster seems reluctantly amused, while the steward is fidgeting and determinedly staring down at his shoes.

The pause is long enough for the wind to change, and while the ship rolls under the slight change to the sails, Hornblower decides that he has spent time enough trying to be patient.

"May I remind you that lying to the captain could technically be considered as mutinous behaviour?"

At that, the steward jumps to attention, barely restraining himself from saluting, and starts declaring a rapid-fire collection of nervous apologies. Several moments pass, and from what little information he is given, it seems that there had been some sort of incident, possibly involving gambling and drinking, and that everyone involved is deeply and entirely apologetic. This, however, does not explain his current lack of coffee.

So he asks, "And what about the coffee?"

"There is no more coffee, sir," the quartermaster finally tells him, as the steward seems currently incapable of forming coherent words.

Horatio nods, and makes a note to find out the details about this alleged gambling, and then dismisses the two men.

***

Several months later, when the plotted course on his current map puts his ship just off the coast of Nicaragua, when the breakfast he's served is once again blackened water and weevils, he when his morning's walk brought the uncomfortable realisation that they have finally run out of lemon juice, and would run out of tobacco within the next two weeks.

He doesn't drink, yet, not after he chanced to glance at the slate, and thereby at today's date.

He would not usually consider today a day worthy of celebration or special notice, especially not after almost seven months on sea, and yet, for a short moment, he feels a strange wave of disappointment rise in his throat, choking him while he clenches his teeth and tries to force his breath into a more regular pattern, one that doesn't feel like crying or vomiting.

He opens his eyes again, still counting his breaths, trying to keep them as deep and steady as possible, and finally picks up the cup of blackened water that is still pretending to be coffee, entirely unaffected by Hornblower's minor existential crisis.

The taste that hits his tongue upon contact with the liquid is surprising enough that he almost drops the cup, and manages to spill several drops of it on his hands.

And after an embarrassing moment's worth of contemplation, he sets the cup down again, in order to carefully lick the spilt liquid off his hands.

Even against the slightly salty taste of his skin, the bitter and dark taste of coffee is strong enough to be almost overwhelming, after so many months without. He empties the cup, and calls for his steward again.

"I thought we had run out of coffee several months ago?", he asks, voice carefully calm.

The steward nods.

"Then how would you explain the fact that I have just been served coffee for breakfast?"

"I don't know, sir?"

"Who would know, then?"

The steward hesitates. "Lieutenant Bush, sir," he eventually says.

Hornblower nods, and then dismisses him. He finishes breakfast, and then spends several minutes re-reading his orders before he goes to find Bush. It wouldn't do to call for him too soon after learning of this, not if he wanted to keep his reputation as a serious and rational captain.

This plan, however, fails as soon as he steps out on deck, and Bush finds him instead.

"It seems I have you to thanks for today's breakfast," Hornblower tells him.

"I thought it appropriate," Bush replies, staring straight ahead.

"Why," he asks, in a tone that implies it to be a statement rather than a question.

Bush doesn't blush. He does, however, manage to do so in a way that clearly indicates that he would, if his complexion allowed for him to do so. "The stores were calculated for travel of significantly more than six months, sir, and it had been implied that we might not be able to go ashore for the entire duration of this mission," he says. "Considering this, it seemed reasonable to expect that we would run out of coffee long before today. And I thought that maybe you might appreciate having proper coffee today."

"Ha-h'm," Hornblower says.

"It is your birthday, sir, isn't it?"

"Ha-h'm," Hornblower says again.

"Congratulations," Bush says. He then turns away, apparently having said everything he considered necessary to say.

Hornblower watches him walk away, and finds himself surprised to notice the disappointment clear in Bush's bowed head and careless steps. He finds himself even more surprised to realise that as much as he cares about his carefully guarded reputation, it doesn't seem worth it in the face of such a reaction.

"Mr Bush," he calls out, and then, when the lieutenant turns to face him again, adds, "Thank you."

And Bush walks away, a pleased smile playing on his lips.


End file.
